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When Norwegian ref Christina Pedersen called the now-infamous six-second violation on Canadian keeper Erin McLeod, no one on hand understood what was happening. An archaic rule had been insanely applied. Much of the rest of the game unfolded in total confusion.

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This had always been the hottest burning rivalry in women’s soccer. The next few moments would make it one of the most deeply felt in all of sport.

A free kick, a handball and a game-tying penalty later, you already felt Pedersen had cost Canada the contest. The emotion was out there on the pitch, but haphazardly.

Later, Christine Sinclair — coming off the best game of her career — would turn to the Pedersen and scream “F-----g horrible.” Pedersen didn’t hear the “-ible” part. Her match report noted the offence, resulting in a three-match ban. Sinclair never came close to apologizing.

It got really weird once we got into the press room.

We were working out of Manchester United’s lavish digs. The room was packed with American reporters, most of whom had the decency to seem abashed.

The form in FIFA-sponsored competitions is that the losing manager speaks first, usually alongside a player.

On that night, Canadian coach John Herdman wouldn’t come out of the locker room. So U.S. manager Pia Sundhage went first.

It is hard to encapsulate the glibness with which she spoke of the stolen victory. Someone asked if she felt at all bad for the Canadian team. Sundhage laughed at the thought — an awful bark — and said, “No,” as if only idiots wasted time on empathy. It was infuriating.

Most of the reporters trailed her out of the room. When Herdman finally wandered in alone, there were only a few Canadian journos left. I don’t often (i.e. ever) care about a final score. But after watching Sundhage crow for 10 minutes, I was a little worked up. It was an emotional night all around.

The first question was an inquiry into Herdman’s thoughts about the six-second violation. He grinned awkwardly, shrugged his shoulders and said, “It is what it is.”

I lost my rag. I corkscrewed my body furiously and whisper-screamed something unprintable.

The room was nearly empty. Herdman could not avoid noticing. He shouted down from the podium, “What’s the matter with you?”

I was well past tact. I yelled up at him — and I’m going off memory here — “You do realize you’re speaking on behalf of a whole country now? You realize this is about more than one loss? You just got robbed on the international stage. And the best you can do is, ‘It is what it is?’”

I remember an embarrassed silence — much more embarrassed for me than for him.

Herdman stared a hole through me, more confused than angry. He ended several subsequent answers by turning to me and asking, “Is that good enough?”

Eventually, it was. He worked himself up to the proper froth the occasion called for. He’s a great manager and a good guy and he did the country proud that night.

But he was still pretty pissed at me. As it broke up, Herdman came steaming off the stage in my direction. I didn’t think he would have hit me, but the Calgary Herald’s George Johnson ran to throw himself between us, just in case. The brotherhood of the press at work. Leaning over George’s shoulder, Herdman poked at the air between us and jabbered for a bit before giving up.

His heart wasn’t in it. It had already been broken. By the end, he looked dazed and unwell. He had to be led off-stage. James Brown leapt to mind.

We rushed down to talk to the team as they boarded the bus. Each of them was crushed in her own way.

Sinclair was defiant — she was the one who floated the idea of a fix. McLeod was circumspect. Melissa Tancredi was an absolute mess, sobbing and irate. Diana Matheson — the eventual bronze medal hero — was slow boiling. She spoke in a monotone. Her stare was fixed. She was giving off so much heat you could spot a shimmer over her head.

It was a night of remarkable encounters. I’ve never before or since experienced so much real emotion at a park. It was damn close to hatred, if not exactly for the ref or their opponents, then certainly for the result. They’d just had a gold medal snatched away by one woman’s mental hiccup. A loss so devastating on so huge a stage landed us all in surreal, unfamiliar territory. We didn’t know how to act with each other. Were we part of this or just reporting on it? For once, it felt like both things were possible.

It took us forever to get a bus back to our (by Manchester standards) tony hotel. During the game, there’d been a fight in the lobby between Canadian and American fans. The Canadians were still in the lounge, hoping for more.

A post-match drink turned into a sodden wake. We slipped the bartender a ludicrous tip. He continued serving well past the 2 a.m. end of his shift. Throughout, the atmosphere was so charged, it was close to hysteria.

A few days later, I found Herdman and apologized. He didn’t seem to remember what I was talking about. I’ve wondered since how many of those directly involved in that night can recall it precisely.

Like all the big moments in life, it’s still there in small details — the crowd’s gut-shot howl when Alex Morgan scored the winning goal; Tancredi’s jaw working side-to-side as she tried to speak afterward; someone wearily asking if anyone had a joint as we waited for the media shuttle.

But the big picture is obscured. It’s a war story, with the fog that implies.

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